Encounters at a crime scene
by Richefic
Summary: Encounter number two. In which John diagnosis a patient and Sherlock gets nervous.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – No animals were harmed in the making of this fanfiction

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As John Watson turned up his collar in a futile attempt to warn off the constant drizzle and freezing temperatures, he wondered what he was actually doing here. It had taken him less than two minutes to confirm the time and cause of death. Given the temperature of the body and the large brick shaped indentation in the back of the victim's head, it was the kind of information he imagined even Anderson would have been capable of supplying.

For the last twenty minutes Sherlock had completely ignored his presence as he bickered with Lestrade about the relevance of some piece of red thread caught in the victim's torn finger nail. If he was honest with himself, John had already had a very long day at the surgery; he was tired, very cold, extremely hungry and in the confided space of the small, Victorian alleyway, the rancid smells of decomposing rubbish and human and animal waste really weren't helping.

Then he heard it.

The mewling cry was soft, but insistent in its distress. Moving further into the alleyway, John briefly considered that this wasn't the most sensible course of action, if the brick wielding manic was still around. However, he was reasonably confident his Army training and the reassuring weight of his gun in his pocket was all the protection he might need. Tracking the sound to a battered cardboard box, he didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know what he would find when he opened it.

"Hello, little one."

Inside the puppy couldn't have been much more than six or seven weeks old. Its terrier ears, mixed with a Boxer body, topped off with a slightly too long tail was testament to its debateable parentage. Not exactly a pedigree, its size and weight also suggested it was most likely the runt of the litter. And rather than taking it to the RSPCA or Dogs Trust or any of the other animal charities which would have taken it in, some heartless git had dumped it in this freezing alleyway to die.

"Shh, shh, easy there."

John reached out slowly to caress the little ears. Leaning to his warmth the emaciated puppy raised its head with an effort so that its small, pink tongue could lick John's hand. The doctor responded by scratching him gently behind the ears, so that the puppy closed his eyes in ecstasy and tipped his head back, leaning into the glorious sensation. John couldn't stop the smile which spread across his face at its blissful reaction.

"Well, I can hardly leave you here, can I boy?" He decided scooping up the furry bundle in one large hand, before he frowned. "Or is it girl?" A quick check didn't require much medical training to ascertain the difference. "Okay boy, let's get you out of this cold and wet and see if we can't find something you'll feel like eating."

Tucking the puppy inside his jacket to share some body heat, John carried it out of the alley, past the crime scene where Sherlock and Lestrade were still arguing and across the road to the warmth and light of an all night cafe on the corner. Not at all sure what the puppy's stomach could tolerate John (carefully hiding the tiny puppy from the owner's eagle eyes in his lap) ordered a mug of warm milk and a plate of scrambled eggs for the puppy and tea and a full English breakfast for him.

"My friend will along in a tick." He smiled at the waitress, when she gave him an odd look at his double order.

Encouraged by the way his new protégé eagerly licked milk from his fingers, surreptitiously tipped some into the saucer held it under the table for the puppy to drink. Then he sneaked it morsels of scrambled egg, as he sated his own hunger with the bit plateful of sausage, bacon, beans, fried egg, fried bread and mushrooms. He decided to take his time. Let Sherlock wonder where he had buggered off to for once. As it was, he was just wiping the plate clean of orange baked bean juice with the last slice of fried bread when Sherlock slid in opposite him.

"I hope that wasn't for me."

Sherlock looked in distaste at the skin which had formed on top of the left over now stone cold milk and the congealed remains of the scrambled eggs, sitting on top of soggy toast.

"Did you eat _anything _today?" John asked conversationally.

"I ate yesterday, as you are very well aware," Sherlock pointed that. "That's perfectly sufficient for my immediate needs."

"You do know that most people eat at least three times every day?" John pointed out.

"Indeed," Sherlock sniffed. "Just as you are perfectly aware that I am not _most people_, for example, _most people_, the proprietor of this establishment included, would be utterly ignorant of the fact that you are presently attempting to hide a small dog inside your jacket inside an establishment licensed to serve food."

"And I'd like to keep it that way, if you don't mind," John hissed. "So, could you keep your bloody superior voice down?"

"Why exactly _do_ you have a dog?" Sherlock brow crinkled. "And where did you get it from?"

"Someone abandoned_ him _near our crime scene." John provided.

"And you thought the animal might be evidence?" Sherlock frowned.

"I thought he was cold and hungry," John shook his head. "Poor little mite's nothing but skin and bones, but a spot of food and a bit of warmth has perked him right up, hasn't it boy?" The puppy responded to John's attention by squirming happily and trying to climb up to lick his chin. "Settle down, Gladstone" John laughed, tucking the small body back down out of sight under the Formica table . "You're not even supposed to be in here. You'll get us all into trouble."

"Gladstone?" Sherlock stiffened.

"It's just a name," John wouldn't meet his eyes. "I needed to call him something."

Sherlock resisted the temptation to say that of course he didn't need to. The slight flush that lit John's cheeks and the way he turned his head away said he_ knew_ that already. But the way that his fingers continued to caress the soft fur in reassurance, cradling the small puppy securely in his lap spoke of an already established emotional relationship. Sherlock refused to acknowledge that the small spurt of feeling he experienced was jealously.

"I'm allergic to dog hair." He lied.

"No, you're actually not." John reminded him blandly.

"Yes, I am." Sherlock insisted. "I'm allergic to having dog hairs on the carpet, all over my clothes, right across the kitchen floor .."

"You keep a severed head in the fridge and yet you're worried about a few dog hairs around the place?" John challenged.

"Not _just_ the hairs, _obviously_," Sherlock scoffed. "Dogs need time. They have to be walked, trained, occupied, they wished to stroked and played with, they need to be fed and watered and brushed and paid attention to."

"Might stop you from getting bored?" John suggested.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Sherlock scoffed. "Dogs being so well known for their scintillating conversation, honestly John, how could you possibly think a creature whose vocabulary is entirely focused on its own self gratification could ever hold the slightest interest for me?"

"I have no idea." John said with a completely straight face.

Sherlock regarded his flatmate sourly for a moment. Part of him was utterly _thrilled _that John Watson was a man whose conversation actually merited active engagement. The more childish part of him was distinctly _put out_ that his friend knew him well enough to call him on his behaviour. It was not a circumstance he was entirely accustomed to.

"There are numerous charitable organisations," He pointed out. "Whose sole aim is to ensure that abandoned dogs..."

"Gladstone." John interjected.

"That they get _suitable_ homes," Sherlock ignored the interruption. "I hardly think that the two of us, both with full time jobs, living in central London, exactly fit the bill."

"Since when did either of us have full time jobs?" John countered. "I do a few hours at the surgery here and there. And you spend most of your time between cases lying on the sofa in your dressing gown. Most dogs are fine if left for a couple of hours."

"Mrs Hudson would never allow it," Sherlock pointed out loftily, secure in his appeal to a higher power. "Or have you forgotten how terrified she is of dogs?"

"She is not terrified," John couldn't believe the blatant exaggeration. "Granted, she's a bit nervous when she goes out if that kid from the corner shop walks by with his Dad's two Doberman's, but that's because they're big, boisterous dogs and she's not confident he can hold onto them. She's perfectly happy to look after Mrs Turner's poodle for her when she goes away. She would love this little chap and if we were ever completely stuck there's always Harry."

"Harry?" Sherlock was scathing. "You mean, as in your totally irresponsible alcoholic sister, Harry? The next thing I know you'll be advocating Mycroft as a reliable pet sitter on the grounds that he's got some sort of high level security clearance or other."

"Alright then, I'm sure I could find some sort of dog sitting service."

"At £10 an hour?" Sherlock queried. "Not to mention, all the other extra expense. Over its lifetime a recent survey estimated that an average dog would cost £50,000."

"You don't know that the earth goes around the sun, but _that_ you know?" John challenged. "I don't think I even want to know why. Still, it's not like I would be buying him diamond collars and Burberry dog coats."

"And then there are all the extra household costs, when you discover that your little bundle of joy has chewed on the furniture or left its mess on the carpet." Sherlock pointed out.

"After living with you, I think training this little fellow is going to be a piece of cake," John pointed out. "At least, he won't be shooting bullet holes in the wall or exploding eye balls in the microwave."

"John," Sherlock realised his flatmate had gone from talking about the practicalities of having a dog to speaking as if they were actually keeping the thing. "We can't possibly have a dog. The whole idea is preposterous."

"Lot's of people seem to manage." John pointed out calmly. "Didn't you have a dog growing up?"

Despite the slightly odd nature of the Holmes family a dog seemed to be the kind of thing that went with the kind of household John imagined his flatmate growing up in. Right up there with the country estate, a town house in London and being sent to boarding school, the pile of dogs sitting by the Aga.

"Yes," Sherlock's tone was clipped. "Which is why I don't care to have one again. It's not an experience I'm anxious to repeat."

"Did you get bitten?" John straightened up a little.

"No."

"Okay," John considered that. "Chased then maybe?"

"Really, John you do have a tendency towards the dramatic," Sherlock observed.

"And you still haven't told me why you don't want a dog."

"Because there's no point in it," Sherlock protested. "You spend all that time and money but sooner or later the dog will simply die and you'll be left with nothing to show for any of it."

"You were upset because your dog died." John realised.

"Why would something that was utterly inevitable possibly upset me?" Sherlock asked.

John studied his friend closely. The question didn't quite carry the usual ring of arrogance. Sherlock might be a difficult person to get close to and John had plenty of his own theories as to why that might be, most of which related more to being a stunningly intelligent child, who had little in common with his peers, or even most adults, leaving him confused about how to interact with the world around him and determined to live down to expectations, even as he was driven to prove his brilliance, than being a sociopath high functioning or otherwise. But the other man was perfectly capable of forming attachments to people he liked and most telling of all, people who liked him.

"You're wrong you know." John scratched the dog's ears. "You're not left with nothing. You also have a lot of good memories."

Sherlock looked away, but his expression was thoughtful rather than dismissive. John waited patiently. He knew that if Sherlock was adamant about not having the dog then Mike Stamford had been talking about getting a puppy for his children. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock that though, much as he wanted to keep the puppy, he also thought it would be good for his friend.

"I'm not looking after it." Sherlock announced suddenly.

"That's fine by me." John hid his smile as he remembered his mother once making exactly the same declaration. Yet once the dog had become part of the household, she had spoiled it shamelessly whenever she didn't think anyone else was watching. He could see Sherlock being just like that.

"Then I suggest that we get out of here," Sherlock advised. "The waitress has been staring at us for the last two minutes."

"Too late." John realised.

"Is that a _dog_?" Her shrill voice sounded out across the room. "You can't bring a dog in here. I'm calling the police on you."

"Shall we?" Sherlock grinned tightly.

"Ready when you are." John assured him, ensuring Gladstone was tucked safely against his chest.

They ran.


	2. Chapter 2

2. Diagnosis

AN - This was originally going to be a story about Mumps, but then I realised that that particular diseases' impact on male fertility is neither common nor long term – and besides which Sherlock _really _wouldn't care! So, I had to find an illness he would worry about!

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The house was a relatively modest Victorian terrace on a nice tree lined street within walking distance of the tube station and local amenities as Estate Agents liked to say. The only thing that distinguished it from its neighbours was the layers of scaffolding across its half painted exterior, the yellow crime scene tape presently cordoning it off and the muted sounds of a child crying inside.

"There's no body?" Sherlock scowled as he followed Lestrade under the yellow tape, taking a moment to glare at the DI as he waited for John to pay off the taxi, so the three of them could proceed through the door into the tiled hallway together, where various crime scene officers milled around them. The sounds of the child's crying got louder. "Then what exactly am I doing here?"

"You like the strange ones," Lestrade shrugged. "This is about as strange as it gets. Elizabeth Harrison, aged 34, kissed her husband goodbye when he left for work at 7.45am. At the same time Malcolm Simpson Ltd arrived to finish off painting the front and back of the house. At 7.30am she brought them all a cup of tea and went back into the house. At 7.45 the child started to cry. At first the guys thought nothing of it, but the kiddie kept on crying. Finally, when they couldn't raise anyone inside the house, they called the police. When the uniforms arrived and broke down the door Mrs Harrison had simply vanished."

"So there were painters at the front and back of the terraced house. Yet somehow Mrs Harrison disappeared into thin air," Sherlock began to speak his thoughts aloud, only to physically flinch as the child's cries reached a crescendo, his own voice rose to a similar level of pique. "I can't think with these distractions? Can't someone make that noise stop!"

"PC Atkins has been trying for the last thirty minutes," Lestrade pointed out. "Her father is on his way. In the meantime, nothing we have tried has made any difference. She just keeps asking for Bugs."

"Insects?" Sherlock frowned. "Why would a child that age be remotely interested in entomology?"

"I think he meant Bugs as in Bunny, probably a stuffed rabbit," John supplied. At Sherlock's blank look he clarified. "Bugs Bunny, the cartoon rabbit, didn't you watch _any_ television as a child?"

The way that Sherlock held his gaze for a fraction longer than necessary, coupled with the slightest twitch of a muscle in his cheek, made John regret raising the apparent deficiencies of his flatmate's childhood in such a public forum. He cast his flatmate a genuinely apologetic look. Sherlock eyes softened very slightly.

"Can't you just give her the rabbit?" His solution was pure logic.

"We've searched the house from top to bottom and we can't find the blessed thing," Lestrade supplied tiredly. "Atkins tried her with a different toy but it just made her cry harder. I suppose we could go and buy her another rabbit."

"Waste of time," Sherlock dismissed that. "Even if you could find the exact same rabbit, to her it will be nothing like the one she has lost. It's colour would have faded from frequent washing. Even so, there would residual stains of the fabric, transferring a familiar smell and the blanket itself would be well worn, resulting in a particular texture that even a child of that age could easily .."

Sherlock stopped, mid flow, his face taking on that look on concentration that said he had pieced together a particularly tricky piece of evidence.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

"Washing machine," Sherlock declared. "Where is it?"

"In the kitchen."

John tried to make up for his earlier lapse by keeping any trace of censure out of his voice. He had already discovered that Sherlock had no idea how the washing machine worked and no wish to fin d out. He used a laundry service that collected and delivered all his laundry needs. It went without saying that the proprietor owed Sherlock a favour so provided the service for free. He had generously offered to extend this facility to John, but the doctor had felt awkward about living off Sherlock's reputation and had insisted on using the dilapidated machine in the small room off the basement.

Sure enough when John located and opened the family's washing machine, there nestled among a tangle of sheets and pillowcases was a slightly damp, purple floppy eared rabbit. John grinned in genuine appreciation at this unequivocal evidence that Sherlock's deductive abilities knew no limits. Lestrade just breathed an immense sigh of relief that the girl might finally settle down and Sherlock looked insufferably smug as he reached in and plucked the stuffed rabbit to safety, carrying it to where Atkins was holding the crying child like a King about to bestow a knighthood.

"It doesn't seem to have made her any happier," Sherlock observed after a moment. "Not to mention, any quieter."

"She's not crying because of the rabbit." John spoke up.

"Well, obviously not only because of the rabbit," Lestrade agreed. "She did just wake up all alone in an empty house and nobody seems to know where her mother might have gone."

"I don't think that's why she's crying either, or at least not entirely," John knelt down on the floor in front of Atkins so he could get a closer look at the child. "What's her name?"

"Jezelbel," Sherlock supplied. "Unfortunate, but true."

"How could you possibly know that?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"Her coat was hanging in the hallway," Sherlock supplied. "It had a name tag inside. Unless, you are hiding any more 4-5 year old girls around here whose favourite colour is clearly purple, judging by her dress, shoes and tights, not to mention the predominant colour of "Bugs" then her name is Jezebel Harrison."

"What would you say if I told you she had an identical twin." Lestrade demanded.

"That you clearly have too much time on your hands if you are trying to catch me out with such inane nonsense." Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh, come on," Lestrade protested. "It might be possible."

"Even putting aside the statistical unlikelihood of identical twins within the general population, every photo in this house shows only one child at a time, even if the girls were identical parents generally like to have pictures of their children together and then, of course, there's the shoes."

"The shoes?" Lestrade blinked.

"Shoes," Sherlock repeated. "There are only three sets of shoes in the hallway, mother, father and one child."

"When you two girls have quite finished," John butted in, as he sat back on his heels, having finished his examination of the child. "She has chicken pox."

"Chicken pox?" Lestrade blinked. "I don't se any spots?"

"That's because those generally start on the trunk," John lifted the edge of the little girl's top up to show the rash developing on her tummy. "She's probably been feeling out of sorts for a few days already."

Sherlock said nothing at all as he watched John climb to his feet and cross the hallway into the small cloakroom under the stairs, running the water until it was hot and carefully washing the fronts and backs of his hands and in between his fingers and down his wrists in the manner of a doctor, before wiping them dry with some toilet paper and flushing that down the loo.

"Chicken pox is contagious." He realised.

"Yeah, she'll probably be infectious for another five or six days," John allowed, as he walked back into the lounge. He looked at Lestrade. "The father will need to stay home from work and keep her out of nursery until the spots are all crusted over. You should probably let anyone who has been in contact with her know, just to be on the safe side. Chances are most of them will have had had it, in which case the risk of them being infected is pretty low but they can still pass it to their kids."

"Like I didn't have enough to deal with," Lestrade sighed. "Any chance you're solved actually the crime whilst you['re here.?"

"Mrs Harrison has been having an affair with Thomas Simpson the son and heir of the proprietor of the painting business for the last month," Sherlock supplied. "As it is clearly not creditable that she left the house without leaving a trace he was doubtless culpable in her disappearance. I suggest you arrest him and then pop round to his residence. No doubt you will find Mrs Harrison there alive and well."

"You think she abandoned her daughter to shack up with her lover?" Lestrade was appalled.

"I don't think, I know," Sherlock retorted crisply, before turning on his heel. "Now, if we are done here, I do have far more pressing matters to attend to. Come along, John."

John shrugged apologetically at Lestrade, at Sherlock's abrupt tone, before following his flatmate back out into the street. Catching up with the consulting detective he watched him out of the corner of his eye as he hailed a Taxi. If John didn't know better he would almost say Sherlock almost seemed agitated.

"Since when do you have anything more pressing than a case?" He asked curious.

Sherlock said nothing in reply as he settled himself into the back seat of the taxi and stared fixedly out of the window. For a few miles he neither spoke or moved and John resigned himself to not getting any kind of answer. It was only when they were some distance from the crime scene that Sherlock suddenly broke his silence.

"I was never vaccinated against Chicken Pox."

"People generally aren't," John observed mildly. "90% of adults in the UK are pretty much immune to the virus because they've had it before. The vaccination is usually only given people with a low immune system or to healthcare workers who have never developed any immunity as a child."

"I also never had the illness as child." Sherlock rejoined.

"Ah," John realised that he had finally got to the bottom of his flatmate's uncharacteristic anxiety. "It's really not that big a deal. Having Lestrade tell people that Jezabel was infectious was just a sensible precaution."

"A precaution which wouldn't be necessary if there was nothing to worry about," Sherlock pointed out. "Therefore, it stands to reason that there is something to worry about." Sherlock shifted about rapidly in his seat.

"What are you doing?" John frowned.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm itching. I feel an itch," Sherlock pulled up his shirt sleeve to peer critically at his almost translucent arm, which he proceeded to thrust under John's nose. "Is that a spot?"

"You care about getting a rash," John realised with a glimmer of amusement. "Still, I suppose I should have expected anyone who dresses in Dolce and Gabbana, Spencer Hart and Belstaff to be at least a little vain."

"Fashion is irrelevant," Sherlock dismissed that with a superior sniff. "I simply chose clothes that are comfortable and practical. And I don't care about the symptoms I'm simply worried about the affect of the disease."

"Your argument would be a little stronger if your coat, a couple of suits and a few shirts didn't work out at more than what was a month's salary for me and I was getting shot at." John pointed out.

"It's a spot," Sherlock decided. "I'm certain of it."

"Sherlock," John batted the arm none too gently aside. "The incubation period for chicken pox is between 10 and 21 days. You only met Jezabel about twenty minutes ago."

"But I touched things," Sherlock protested. "I touched the rabbit. That means I'm infected."

"It means you might be infected," John allowed. "But you're most probably not."

He hoped the resulting silence was a good sign but he should have known better.

"It says here that Chickenpox can be a very serious illness in adults," Sherlock had pulled out his phone and was staring transfixed at the data. "It can cause problems such as brain swelling and pneumonia. I can't risk either of those."

"I don't honestly think it's possible for your brain to be any more swollen than it already is," John remarked dryly. "And pneumonia is much less likely now that you're on the nicotine patches."

"This website says it's possible to have a subclinical case of Chicken Pox," Sherlock tapped excitedly. "I might have been exposed to the virus as a child but not actually displayed any symptoms. We need to go straight to ST Bart's and take a blood sample to check my titres."

"Sherlock," John said in the most level voice he could manage. "If you don't stop googling every health related website you can find, I am going to take your phone and throw it out of the cab window."

"You wouldn't dare." Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his phone.

"Do you _want_ to try me."

The words hung quietly in the air between them imbued with challenge. Sherlock paused fractionally, his eyes sliding sideways as he attempted to gauge exactly how serious John was. If there was one thing that Sherlock had learnt about John Watson was that he tended to be a man of his word.

"We need to stop at the supermarket." He declared instead.

"You are _volunteering _to go to the supermarket?" John couldn't resist. "You should have said something before. Definitely not feeling well."

"I need calamine lotion, ibuprofen, paracetamol, oatmeal .." Sherlock ignored him as he reeled off a list.

"We are not going to the Supermarket," John vetoed that. "I have a date with Sarah tonight and I will not spend the next two hours standing in Tesco's whilst you compare the skin care properties of various different types of oatmeal."

"You're going out?" Sherlock blinked at him. "Tonight?"

"I told you this morning," John reminded him. "Sarah has tickets for this charity dinner to raise funds for the local Hospital."

"But that was before I got infected!" Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock, for the last time .." John was close to exploding "You. Are. Not. Infected."

"Some doctor you are. You don't even care if I'm sick." Sherlock pouted.

"That's because you're_ not_ sick!" John had had enough. "_If_ you get sick, and right now that's still a bloody big _if_, then I will diagnose your symptoms, I will organize your treatment, I will ensure you are properly hydrated and force nutritious food down your stupid stubborn throat. I even promise to run your oatmeal baths and put up with your constant whining, because you will be sick and I will feel sorry for you. _But_ I am not doing all of that for the next three weeks on the off chance that you _might possibly _get sick!"

Having had his say, John resolutely folded his arms and half turned in his seat so, that he was facing entirely away from the consulting detective. Amidst the flickering lights of the passing shop fronts he could see Sherlock's reflection in the window looking intently at him.

"You are being unreasonably irritable, John," He observed calmly. "Are you sure, you're not getting sick?"

John resolutely ignored him and with the determination learnt under fire did not move to scratch the totally psychosomatic itch on his arm.


End file.
